Beyond The Cheap Colored Lights
by tarajcl
Summary: Set in BW. Just looking at a couple of Predacons' lives before conquering Cybertron came into the picture. 'Ware the Scorpinok angst.
1. Chapter 1

It seems I am incapable of writing a cheerful BW fic. Curses. Pre-BW, as if the world needed another. This is probably going to become multi-chapter. Great. Now I'm doing three at once. ((sighs and beats herself with a wooden spoon))

Disclaimer: Nope, still not mine. A cookie for anyone who can work out who Scope is.

Beyond The Cheap Colored Lights

"'I think that I've been here too long…'"

The tuneless hum that supported him up the rickety stairs was testament to the universal truth that Decepticons couldn't sing. Even if, technically, they were now classified as Predacons.

"'For all the gods have left me standing…"

The building was in disrepair and had been as long as he'd known it. Living in it for ten years now had done little to improve his feelings towards either it or the city it loitered in.

As he moved up, something on the ground caught his eye. He looked over the dented railing-there was never any wind on Sector 19, so he couldn't pretend that the slight swaying of the stairs beneath him was caused by anything other than neglect and his own weight- and focused his optic band on the evening-lit street below. There was a dead body lying a little way from the middle of the road. He stared at it apathetically for a moment, before leaning back from the railing-wincing as it creaked pathetically beneath him-and continuing upwards.

As he approached their level of the complex, he decided not to tell Scope about it. Knowing him, he'd probably want to drag the shell off to be set alight, or something equally silly. Scorpinok, being mercilessly free of his partner's odd ideals, was perfectly happy to let the dead lie.

"'…the gods are dead, the stars are gone…'"

Coming in, he didn't say very much. The large, dark figure of his rent-mate growled in acknowledgement, before returning to poring over the forty or so info disks that lay scattered on their table. (If a burnt out piece of spaceship hull counted as a table.)

The most positive way to describe their living space was 'cozy'. Granted, 'cozy' implied a certain amount of warmth and comfort, of which the room had neither, but if describing size alone, then 'cozy' was perfectly accurate. It was tidy, in the way that tidy people without many possessions keeps rooms tidy. It had a wonderful view of the nearest building, which would have been a good thing if the nearest building hadn't been even more neglected than theirs. Sitting at one particular point, tilting your head a certain way and looking out the window at an angle that almost damaged your neck, it was possible to make out a patch of the Sector's golden sky. It was a point that Scope always seemed to occupy whilst studying, although the pitiful view had never managed to enthrall Scorpinok.

He put down their rations; six cubes of energon in total, no more or less than any of the other citizens of Sector 19 were allowed. Enough to last them the next ten megacycles, if they were careful. Scorpinok thought it would be alright. Neither of them were greedy or particularly indulgent when it came to over-energizing. Neither of them any longer had functions that required excessive amounts of power.

"I think I'm gonna work on my stuff", he stated after a moment's uncaring silence. The other made a waving gesture with his hand. Unseen, Scorpinok nodded, and slunk away.

They existed like this. Although trust between them was reasonably strong, neither cared to air their thoughts unless necessity called. Scorpinok didn't mind. The judgeless silence was a welcome shelter.

Entering his room, he shivered with relief. In here, it was orderly. Lights flashed cheerfully from the ceiling, equipment hummed gently in the background. The room was filled with the green neon glow of the testing screens he had installed himself. Nothing in the room had cost too much. He'd starved them both for a few weeks in order to obtain the power generator, but after that is own fingers had done the work. Naturally, he'd blundered hugely once or twice; when installing the screens he'd accidentally wiped out all the power for three blocks, an honest mistake that Scope had almost impaled him for. Eventually, he'd built himself a small, barely-adequate laboratory, dark and quiet and lit with soft, friendly lights. It was a stark contrast to the glaring, sunset-stained city outside, and that, if nothing else, he was grateful for.

And there, on the table…

He didn't enjoy anything anymore-neither did Scope, he suspected-but tinkering filled up the gaps that despair would otherwise have drained into. Currently, his tinkering had lead to this. It was small, and oddly shaped. Insect-like and rounded, with rounded wings and large, alien eyes, it almost resembled a toy. He'd taken the design from some peculiar foreign creature he'd once seen, though he could never quite remember where he'd seen it.

A wan smile appeared.

_Think I'll call it a Cyber…something…_

For the next few hours, his hands worked, his optics focused and his mind forgot.


	2. Life In Babylon

Tiamat1972: You get a cookie. May his awesome never decrease. ((pitiful fangirling))

More pointless scraplet-ing, because angsty pre-BW Predacons are fun. Oh, and this here may or may not count as slash. Personally, I prefer just a mutual trust sorta thing, but take it as you will.

Life in Babylon

He awoke to the smell of burning.

His first, instinctive thought was that he was under attack. A hand twitched involuntarily for the illegal blaster he kept, purely out of habit, in a small, hidden compartment above his recharge bunk. His second, slightly more up to date thought was; _Oh, slag, the block's on fire._

His tingling sensors alerted him to the fact that there was no smoke wafting around his room. They also pointed out that the burning smell was not as pronounced as it should have been for a flaming building. Just a faint wisp on the air, as though someone was…

Oh. Right.

He got up.

Snatching back a sip of energon and quickly checking that nothing obvious was out of place, he hesitated, then went down the stairs.

* * *

Cut the fuel line.

Cut the fuel line, just once, no need to do it twice. Just one neat sweep of the blade, letting black fluid spill.

The mech in question was large, larger even than he was. Crouched over the corpse like someone offering tribute to a dead god, he was quick to ensure that none of the liquid went to waste. Cupping it in his hands, then splashing it lightly over torso, frontal armor, limbs and faceguard. Swiftly he worked. He wasn't particularly worried about being interrupted, and even if he was doubted anyone would dare bother him, but had no desire to linger over this chosen task.

There. All done.

He drew back and stared at the fallen transformer for a brief moment. It was just as well that there was no one around to see the look on his face. He stood and drew back. The effects wouldn't be explosive-the corpse was a day old- but that would be immediate. He gave no requiem. He hadn't known the mechanism, so honoring him properly would be impossible. This was the best he could do.

His optics went green.

After watching the blaze for two minutes, he turned and glared. "What do you want?"

Scorpinok shrugged. "To make sure you weren't burning down the neighborhood."

Scope made a small, incoherent noise in his throat that somehow managed to indicate that, in his personal opinion, the idea was not a bad one. Scorpinok's smirked lifelessly, his gaze shifting to the smoldering figure on the ground, the flames starting to die down.

"Friend of yours?" he asked, although he knew it wasn't.

"No", snarled Scope brusquely, snatching up a rag with which to wipe off his fingers.

"Then why-…", he began, even though he knew why.

"It's important."

Scorpinok sighed. His friend, he knew, had some very strange ideas about importance.

Silence spun for a few minutes, not out of any particular feelings of respect towards the unknown mechanism, but out of respect for the other's feelings on the matter. Odd as they were, they were as much a part of Scope as Scorpinok's lab was of him.

"You wanna go now?" he asked after a while, absently scratching the back of his head.

As Scope retrieved his weaponry (despite his acceptance of the warrior's tendency to deal with the energy-depleted corpses that sometimes collapsed in their neighborhood 'properly', Scorpinok still didn't understand why he had to be so…orthodox about it. Scope, he suspected, hadn't even been around when Decepticon funeral practices had included cremation. Just as senseless, to the scientist's mind, was his deliberate usage of his own weaponry. Upholding tradition was all well and good, but when it came to slitting open primary fuel lines, Scorpinok found that a scalpel was generally far neater than a five foot saber), Scorpinok glanced up at the sky.

Sunrises and sunsets on Sector 19 were always the same; grey. The times in between were variations on the theme. If you had lived there long enough-longer than was good for one's faith and sanity-you could learn to tell the time by the different shades of grey. Currently, the sky was a dim, wood smoke colour, darkening to black in patches here and there. By noon, it would have brightened to a smudgy white, before sinking black into gloom come evening.

Days on the planet were long; eighteen cycles. Whilst some creatures found this disconcerting-for Predacons were not the only inhabitants of Sector 19-it had never bothered Scorpinok. Every ten days one of three moons would become full, and then the Sector would be lit brighter than it ever was during day. This Scorpinok did mind. The glare hurt his optics and gave him a headache.

They left.

Scope departed early. Where he went off to was information that Scorpinok had never been able to divulge, but strongly suspected it involved the city's fetid gladiator pits. Scorpinok sorted through the information disks still splayed across the counter from the night before. Then he locked himself in his laboratory and set to work.

* * *

That night, curled over on his bunk, Scorpinok detected the sound of approaching footsteps. They weren't soft, careful footsteps, but rather the footsteps of someone for whom subterfuge is a lost cause. They were the footsteps of someone incapable of 'subtle', even if his very soul depended on it. Wordlessly, Scorpinok shuffled over. Moments later, he was aware of a large, ungainly shape slumping exhaustedly down next to him.

A long, sharp-angled arm snuck over his mid-section. He inched back a little bit, and looped a leg over the awkward, shielded bit on Scope's foot. Uttering a small 'hmph' and hearing the other respond with a low growl-muttering sound, Scorpinok settled into recharge.


	3. Don't Need The Sun

((bows to reviewers))

Slightly longer this time, again, more angst, plus the first etchings of a plot. Do enjoy.

Don't Need The Sun

Everyone has a weakness. Scorpinok had two.

The first was his laboratory, and his endless, mostly futile experiments. The second was ships.

Which was why, on a cold to frigid morning, he loitered near the Sector's laughable excuse for a port and watched the ship come in.

It was a Maximal ship, he was quite certain. Maximal design, certainly, although what actual Maximals would be doing in Sector 19 was beyond him. They were certainly allowed to visit the sector, just as Predacons were certainly allowed to leave the planet, could they find sufficient funding (which, in most cases, they couldn't). But to find any making the effort was a rarity. Both of the devastated sides tended to leave each other alone as much as possible.

There was some sense behind this, Scorpinok would have had to admit. Watching the crew depart from their ship, Maximal law enforcers from the look of them, made a violently strong urge to leap across the landing bay and start wantonly slitting throats rise within him. Restraining himself, he ignored the officials and watched the ship instead.

It was a lovely thing, if a little bit outdated. Shaped like a hexagon, with one side missing. Sharp, pointy design, built for speed rather than endurance. The only thing marring its appearance, other than a little singeing on the lower hull, was the large, sharp, bright red sigil painted on its side. Scorpinok spent a few moments imagining another in its place, even sharper than the Maximal emblem and _purple…_

He was not the only one watching. Several other spectators stood a little way away, not there to appreciate the ship so much as for the novelty of something to relieve the tedium. The air smelt thickly of the Sector's distinguishing scents; oil, dust, the smell of clouds but never of rain. That didn't matter. In his mind, it smelt of gunfire and explosions in the background.

* * *

Scratcher held him, one arm supporting his back, the other busy fiddling with the tangled mess that was his mid-torso circuitry. 

"Hey, Scalder? You okay?"

It was a rhetorical question, but nice to hear his voice. It succeeded in dragging him from the dark, muffled pit he'd been lost in. Staring up, he saw the other's optics, bright red, just like his own. He tried to reach up and touch, but nothing happened. A quick swiveling sideways of his head made clear the reason; his arm had been torn off.

_Ouchies,_ he thought, wincing.

"Think I've had…better days", he muttered, and Scratcher flashed him a grin.

The sky glowed red behind him, enflamed by the steady current of exchanged laserfire, the twin moons of Soldaris gleaming a sharp, furious white. They made the ochre on his lover's face stand out, caught and ennobled the arching lines of his face. How wrong it was to feel happy at such a time, how unfaithful, as the battle was slowly lost behind them and the screams of the dying-theirs, almost certainly- ripped at the air. The battle had gone awry, turned into a massacre. He knew they'd give him nightmares later on. (When, after three days in the med-bay, he was declared fit to leave, they had.)

"Slaggin' idiot," the shorter warrior announced cheerfully, and Scalder really had to agree.

Three weeks later, Scratcher was killed by a piece of debris. Scalder-or Scorpinok, as he would later re-dub himself-hadn't gotten there in time. He'd been busy vaping the legs off a huge enemy rocket when the link had, very simply, gone out. It hadn't hurt, felt more like a rubber band popping at the back of his head.

* * *

They were covering the ship with a protective shield, barring it from the smoggy atmosphere of the Sector rather than thieves. The penalty of thieving from Maximal officials was high enough to deter anyone, and there would be no use in stealing anything as large as a ship these days. Maximal officials, he suspected, wouldn't understand why anyone would try and lay hands on their property. After all, weren't the citizens given sufficient rations? 

The other spectators had wandered off. The crew had dispersed, either to recharge or to get whatever they had come to do over and done with, so as to depart as quickly as possible. One thing you could say for the far northern sectors, they never had tourist problems.

He stood for a while, staring. There was an odd, inconspicuous ache in his spark, similar to listening to something throwing itself against a door ten rooms away. He thought about the illicit blaster under his recharge berth, sighed, and spent a good few minutes thinking to himself practically. Practicality was hard with his jaw clenched and his hand squeezed tight enough to leave dents but eventually he managed it. He found himself wishing, irrationally, powerfully, that Scope was there. The larger warrior couldn't indulge and wouldn't offer reassurance- what reassurance was there to be given?- but he could stroke his back, awkwardly, and he could mutter quiet words that contained all the comfort he knew how to give.

Decepticons, as a whole, were less prone to craving company than Autobots. That didn't change the fact that Scorpinok suddenly felt as painfully alone as he ever had.

He left.

* * *

They'd been able to fly. It wasn't something he'd thought about much. You didn't think about something that came as naturally as walking. You did, he found out later, thnnk about it a lot more when the option was no longer available. 

He was flying now. Below was a small, inadequate base that had been patched together in two days. Below was also a large amount of rocky ground. Unless he was very, very careful, both he and his cargo were going to smack into it. It was difficult topull offa graceful landing with a badly depleted energon supply, and even worse when gale-force winds were threatening to blow you off course.

It could hardly have been called graceful but it sufficed, although he touched down hard enough to almost rip half the joints in his knee. Grumbling to himself, he rose, and limped over to where the hangar's other four occupants stood.

All were larger than he, and all looked impatient to get their allotted task over and done with. They had received warning of an attack in the next hour, and would be scrambling to get off-planet the second this was finished. Back at his base, the others would already be doing so. So should he, except for the fact that someone had needed a delivery made and had judged him to be the smallest, fastest and most expendable.

He saluted, optics meeting those of the most superior officer in respect. The officer in question- a seeker- grunted.

"Hurry up, we haven't got all vorn."

Scalder chose not to speak as he bent down and placed the cracked, still-leaking head at their feet.

It was a simple trial. All knew what had been done and none of them cared. The mech in question (his name had been Silverrain, or something equally fatuous) had gotten himself over-energized for the third time in a month. Unforetunately, he had made the mistake of picking a fight with a higher-ranking officer, which had developed into an outright attack. As a result, he had lost most of his upper body, along with both arms and half a leg. There hadn't been a Decepticon ranked high enough at Base 12 to try him, so he'd been sent over.

Technically, the leg-and-a-half should have also been present, but Silverrain had been bigger than Scorpinok, and he wouldn't have arrived soon enough.

"Crime?"

"Treachery."

The case was open and shut. All witnesses had declared him a traitor. In attacking a superior officer and losing, hehad threatened the life and strength of his group by electing someone unfit to lead. Of course, execution had already taken place, but a trial was still required. Attention to details had to be paid, preached Shockwave, Third In Command of the Decepticon Army, or everything would descend into chaos.

(Scalder, who had been under the impression that chaos was what Decepticons were about, and that maybe Shockwave had missed the point somewhere, kept his vocalizer silent.)

"Decepticon Siverrain, you are found to be a traitor, and are declared unfit to live. But I'm sure you're already aware of that," said the seeker grimly, speaking to the head. Dull optics and a half-open mouth did not offer an opinion on the matter.

"So, are we done?" queried another, already beginning to move towards the departure zone.

"Yes. You, shrimp. Bring the traitor along. We'll smelt him properly at the next station."

Hefollowed, stopping only to pick up the head of his dead comrade, before moving after them.

* * *

It is painful to remain constant. It is painful not to change when the world around demands it of you, neither willing or able to slip into something else. Different ideas, different propaganda, different, ever-changing ideology that glowed like neon signs and tasted cheap, like acid in his mouth. It isn't hard to be something you're not. It's hard being what you _are _when the rest of the universe is something else entirely. One thing it did breed was faith. Scorpinok had learned that early. 

He'd managed by trusting very little, rebelling infrequently and closing off entirely, so that the rest of the world would be too preoccupied with other, more important things to notice and start demanding change from him. He clung to the other constants, small as they were. War, battle, defeat, pain, repair, the repeating cycle that left him alone with his thoughts. It was painful, but dependable.

And then, later on, he'd learned that consistency, whilst an almighty, mother of all slag-pits, was nothing compared to despair. Nothing was worse than despair.

* * *

It wasn't that Predacons weren't allowed to leave the Sectors. Theoretically, they were allowed to leave the planet, if they desired. But after the murder of both Emperor Galvatron and the Autobot leader, slowly leading down into the crashing, hideous end of the war, Cybertron had found itself lacking in even the most basic of materials. To prevent widespread starvation among the newly workless, leaderless masses, a large percentage of both faction's ships and weaponry had been sold to distant systems, systems that were still, even now, prepared to do business. 

What ships remained were usually small, capable of jumping from planet to planet at most. Few were equipped for deep space travel, fewer still capable of traversing galaxies in the ways of the old factions. Those who were rich enough could but their way off. Strangely enough, even those who had the means for leaving Cybertron had, as of yet, done so. Possibly because the whole planet, every member of every faction, was still in shock. Wars have momentum. Stopping a four billion year war in seven years was like hitting a fly with a windshield.

As it was, neither factions had an eighth of the population they had had four hundred and seven years ago.

Scorpinok hadn't considered suicide. It wasn't what Decepticons did. Then he'd found himself living in one of the planet's less stimulating Sectors, and he'd begun thinking about it, idly, every day.

Sunsets were infrequent up in Cybertron's Sectors, but not unheard of. When they appeared, they were golden. They sky would become too bright to look at, and garish streaks would cover buildings like whip marks. Scorpinok would stare at them and long for the dim sky of a battle field at night, softly lit by incoming and outgoing fire.

He trailed like a wisp of smoke through the streets. The grey sky hung lightly above, consistent itself in its agonizing plainness. He passed street vendors, selling almost-certainly ill-gotten spare parts, scratched disks and energon weak enough to have you collapsed on the floor after ten minutes. He saw others like him, all moving to wherever their destinations may have been with the same heavy, heartless tread. He wandered if this was what death was like.

"'For all the gods have left me standing…'"

It was a war hymn, he believed. He couldn't remember which planet he'd heard it on.

He was halfway to their rather shabby block when the thought that would change his life appeared. Utterly unbidden, it came upon him quite suddenly, stopping his footsteps in their tracks, Like most life-altering thoughts, it was extremely complicated, formed, like diamond, from a vast compression of disregarded emotion and built-up negativity. And, like most life-alerting thoughts, when boiled down to the last molecule, it was irrevocably simple.

_I need a drink._

And the thing about despair is this; it taints everything. Like a super-virus, even the tiniest trace of despair sours perception. Everything is flat and empty and unenjoyable. Love depletes to a cold, infrequent ache when despair sets in. Despite what Scope's beloved poets were so fond of saying, despair was worse than hope. For one thing, hope was easier to get rid of.

And hope has so many nasty qualities. As a stimulant, it can be the emotional equivalent of nitroglycerine. And, like all explosive substances, what it leaves behind is a big, inglorious mess.

That was something Scorpinok had never learned. And that was why events from that point on happened as they did. As a result of entering that particular bar that particular evening, Scorpinok was going to die. Had he known this as he'd entered the bar, the future would not have changed, but it would have been a bit less disappointing.

* * *

The first thing he saw upon entering the bar was the barman. The first thing anyone noticed upon entering Cybertronian bars was the barman. 

It had been discovered some time ago that both Autobots and Decepticons made lousy barman. Which was why the majority of the planet's drinking houses were manned by creatures from other worlds. The one here was small, equipped with gills and a single, luminous eye in his/her neck.

He sat, ordered (slag, but Scope was going to be ticked at him for this), and sat for the next five minutes in total silence. A dimly glowing cube was placed before him, a splotch of colour in the far dimmer world of one of the sector's more depressing bars.

"This is really quite dreadful."

The voice was smooth, articulated and ever-so-slightly scholarly. It took Scorpinok a moment to realize that it was addressing him.

This was not his fault. Few people over the last few hundred years had bothered saying anything to him, beyond demanding payment for some part or other used in one of his little toys, and the occasional grunt from his living companion.

Slowly, because old habits die hard and you can't tell Maximal/Autobot from Predacon/Decepticon by voice alone, he turned. To his left sat his addresser, reclining lazily upon the inadequate bar stool. He sat as Scorpinok imagined royalty would sit in a place as morbidly depressing as a Sector 19 bar; as though the entire place was not worth his notice.

"Ah, so you are alive. Good, good", commented his new arrival, and flashed him a smile. It was just a little bit odd, the lips shifting upwards to reveal a line of perfectly flat, perfectly white taste detectors. Off-set by the energon cube, dark purple gleamed along side them. Scorpinok had never seen anyone smile like that in his life.

"Uh…yeah", he muttered.

The apparition smirked, in such a way that dispelled all fears as to his faction. If he was a Maximal, Scorpinok was a sock.

"As I was saying", it continued, "something really must be done. I know the Sectors f tend to rank alongside the Maximals' less, shall we stay, carefully attended efforts, but even for their standards, it's shocking. I don't believe I've seen a single decent information hub since arriving. No, no, it simply won't do. Something must be done."

Scorpinok stared. This was, in a Predacon-infested Sector, suicide talk. The mech turned to him and smiled again.

"Don't you hate it when people say that?" he went on, vocals now toned down with an odd-sounding bitter amusement. "'Something must be done', and then nobody does anything."

"Yeah, well. 's because they're too stupid, I guess. Too…too weak. And it's not like it can be done, anyway."

He did hate it when people said that. He'd never said it, mainly because he'd known that others wouldn't do anything, and he couldn't. He found himself wandering why that hadn't been the reason he'd given.

As his mind struggled top keep up, his optic band took in the details. They were difficult to make out in the gloom, but the apparition's body seemed to pick up every inch of light there was to be had. What Scorpinok could make out was; tall. Wide at the top, but nowhere else. Slender, almost. Oddly few defining structural anomalies, four limbs, wingless, purely functional armour. Primus only knew what his alt-mode was, some kind of sleek hover-jet thing, maybe. Red optics, purple shell. Nothing in itself remarkable, but that _smile_…

"'Not like it can be done anyway'", repeated the apparition. Something in his voice (low, smooth, reflective) made an ember of something uncomfortably like shame flicker in the dead furnace of the smaller Predacon's inner mainframe.

"Hmm. Well. Your name, if I might ask?"

This time Scorpinok did start. The last time someone had actually bothered to ask for his name in casual conversation was…was…

_Krell, has anyone_ ever_ done that?_

He was sure they had. But the distracting presence next to him was making things difficult to recall. Odd, considering the untouched low-grade before him…

He noticed that the other hadn't downed his cube either. He noticed that the other didn't even have a cube.

"Scorpinok", he said, raising his head to formally greet his apparent guest with a small nod. How long had it been since he'd last done that, he wondered.

He actually managed a chuckle (again, the first in ages) at the blink. "Robbed the dead. Y'know, Commander Scorpinok? Decepticon war hero? I named myself after him."

Because his old name just hadn't fit anymore. The new one didn't, either, but he hated the thought of it just being forgotten, so horribly easily. The apparition smiled again.

"Ah", he purred, "what a coincidence."


	4. Today For You

((drops from the ceiling by a rope, holding a sign that reads; I ATEN'T DEAD.))

Discworld references aside, 456y5 i67 &I&co765 this time of year sucks. ((falls to her unworthy knees)) Wimblewimblewimblewimble…

Today For You

The world was lethargy, poison-grey skies keeping the lid on all activity in the city below. There were one hundred and seventy Sectors, all sprawled together, lining the planet's polar region. There was no way to distinguish one from the other. Numbers had been applied at random, a quick and desperate way of identifying the miles of squalid, broken city that had so rapidly become home to a quarter of Cybertron's population.

It wasn't peace. He knew peace. Peace came in moments, fragments that made living feel good and worthwhile. If this was peace, he was a duck.

Ancient steps, swaying serenely in the breeze, almost splintered under his footsteps.

A dark figure against the stormy skies, indistinguishable as evening rolled on, flung himself against the door to their 'home'. When this failed, he cursed, and tried again, forgetting to bother with applying the entrance code. Because the door was almost as ancient as the stairs, on the second try, and with the help of a kick, it drew back on its rails. The resultant whine of pained circuitry went completely unnoticed as the dark grey wisp leapt inside, trailing the last of the sunset in with him.

Their apartment was tiny, and allowed for only one recharge berth. As Scorpinok spent more time in recharge than he spent awake, and Scope succumbed less frequently than was healthy, the room was largely the scientist's domain. Every so often, though, when whichever unstoppable cog it was that kept Scope running sputtered and whined and crawled to a halt, Scorpinok would emerge from his lab to find the door to the third-and-smallest room firmly locked. The situation would likely remain that way for the remainder of the day and most of the night, after which time Scope would emerge and disappear silently down the stairs and into the Sector.

He noticed, upon entering, that the door to the third-and-smallest room was shut. Normally, this would have been enough make him lighten his steps, lest an enraged warrior wielding an illegal saber burst forth and devoured him whole.

Fuel-pump racing, today he flung himself over to his roommate's door and kicked it repeatedly. After five seconds of this, the low, inarticulate snarl that signified a rudely awakened Scope permeated the metal.

"**_What!"_** came from deep within the confines of their sanctuary.

"Open up!"

"Go away!"

"Will you just hurry up!"

The door flew open, revealing his irritated, oath-swearing friend. The larger Predacon glared down like a gorgon.

"If you do not explain-…", he began, before being cut off as Scorpinok, with strength that few would guess he possessed, hauled him out of the room, almost toppling them both.

"_He's incredible!_ He's brilliant! You've got to meet him!"

"Wha-…?"

"_Say you'll meet him_! Please!"

Normally, hauling Scorpinok off his feet and leaning closer to growl at him with optics glowing emerald green was an effective tactic. It wasn't one he often employed on Scorpinok, because Scorpinok was, perhaps, the only being in the universe capable of making Scope feel guilty about it later. Besides, there was generally no call for it. Apart from his occasional slumps from depression into suicidal depression, the Predacon was, as a rule, far more stable than Scope.

It irked the larger warrior to see that his Last Resort Maneuver was not working. Scorpinok, in fact, did not seem to notice that he was dangling a meter from the ground.

"Listen, you need to listen. I was walking, I was walking…somewhere, don't remember where, and I went into a bar and I had a drink and I-I spent half a credit on it and _you've got to meet him!"_

"Be quiet", Scope instructed, giving his captive a shake. The babble slowed as Scorpinok realized his predicament. Remarkably, it did little to effect his mood.

Scope, putting annoyance to one side for a minute, frowned. Something very peculiar had happened to his friend, it seemed. Despite his exceedingly low tolerance for high-grade and its like, the short Predacon seemed energized to a point beyond anything that could be explained away by over-indulgence. The possibility of tainted energon or alternative energy boosters coming unpleasantly to mind, Scope checked Scorpinok's optics. They were brighter than normal, but lacked the distinctively flared ring around the centre that was the inevitable result of Surge and its kin. It was unlikely, anyway; such substances were now more expensive than weaponry, and twice as illegal.

"Oh for-will you put me down! Listen, it's amazing!"

Scope scowled, and, amidst his excitement, Scorpinok was struck anew by how ugly his rent-mate was, especially when he bordered on losing his temper.

"What is!"

"He's thought of everything!"

"Who has!"

Eventually, when Scorpinok had calmed down enough to allow for coherent speech (eventually Scope had resorted to dangling him from the window for a minute or two), an explanation was given. Arms folded, tread tires pressing against the wall, Scope leaned back and waited. Scorpinok stood before him, taking sips from one of their meager rationings. Alternately, he perched on the room's only piece of furniture-a table that also served as a holo-screen- and paced around the room, making extravagant hand, arm and head gestures. Scope listened.

And, when all had been said, he nodded, once, picked Scope up from where he sat upon the warrior's disks and dropped him back on the floor.

"Hey…hey, where're you…", the semi-inebriated scientist began, then stopped as he found himself talking to a shut door. He stared at it for a while.

"Slagger", he sniffed. Then blinked and wandered what he'd been talking about.

"Scrap you then", he muttered. "'e'll do it ourselves…"

* * *

It took less time to convince him than Scorpinok had thought it would. Admittedly, it had been hours before Scope had even agreed to discuss the matter with him in the same room. He'd explained most of the logistics through a crack in the door. After two hours, he decided to take a brake, by bringing most of the components for his latest project out of the lab and fiddling with them, loudly, outside the room. After a considerable amount of technological progress, of which he was cautiously proud, he'd began speaking through the door again. 

All in all, it had taken four hours and fifteen mini-cycles before the door had been wrenched back on its rails and Scope's extremely sour visage had appeared.

"If I listen to you,_ once_, will you concede to never mention whatever fresh madness has made its way into your head ever again?"

He'd nodded.

Now they both stood on the roof. Night had come, and grey chemical-clouds overhead robbed colour from their armor and faces. Scorpinok sat on a broken ledge. Leaning to far back would result in his becoming deader than the corpse of three cycles ago. Scope stood, closer to the opposite ledge, wind and sky tugging at the awkward bits on his arms and legs. Looking at him, Scorpinok wondered if Scope ever missed flying.

He'd asked that they go outside. Not only because the news had felt too big, too sacred for the interior of their lousy living space, but also to set the scene. For all his surliness and ill-temper, there existed, within Scope, a dramatic streak thick enough to paint half the Sector with. Scorpinok was certain his ploy would be seen through, but hoped that the warrior would award him points for effort, regardless.

He explained.

And he explained.

And he explained some more.

And he pleaded.

And when he was done, Scope looked distinctly…troubled.

Trying to work out whether this was a good thing or a bad one, Scorpinok said, hopefully, "So? What…what do you think?"

One of Scope's worse character traits (hypocrisy, ruthlessness and an almost bloodthirsty traditionalism aside) was his tendency to ignore you if he thought your input was of no immediate consequence. Scorpinok considered kicking him.

With a sudden shake of his head, Scope drew back into reality. "This is…ridiculous. I see no point in discussing it further."

That said, he turned and moved towards the stairs.

"So, you want to spend the rest of your life here", Scorpinok said contemplatively. Scope stopped.

Then he turned back and walked in front of the smaller mech, folding his arms over his chest with narrowed optics.

Either he's going to agree, or I'm about to get dealt a good one right across the cranium, Scorpinok thought. He wasn't even entirely sure why he wanted the older one to approve of the idea so badly. But the thought of not actually telling him about it had never crossed his mind. Three hundred years of the Sector had taken their toll of both Scope's anti-social disposition and Scorpinok's fondness for solitude. They had become, in all their ways, unwitting anchors for each other.

"An…odd choice of name", he said finally, and Scorpinok knew he'd won. Now all he had to do was get Scope to admit it.

"Yeah, I thought so too", he agreed, because agreeing with him was a large part of getting Scope to do what you wanted. "On the other hand, when you think about mine…"

It did take less time than he'd thought it would. He thought he knew why, too.

Nonetheless, he was impressed by his own efforts. He talked reasonably. He talked sensibly. He _didn't_ mention the word 'honor', because accidentally misinterpreting Scope's slightly odd beliefs, as many were wont to do, was a good way to get yourself bound, gagged and abandoned in the middle of some barren desert with vultures circling high above. The words 'battle', 'courage'and 'revenge', however, he used three times each, along with a generous ladling of the phrase 'must be better than this, right?'

He didn't say 'come, because I'm a little bit scared and if this all ends up aft-backwards I'd prefer to have you in the same corner as me than anyone else', because neither Decepticons nor Predacons nor reformatted Decepticons who still liked to think of themselves as such said things like that. The temperature dropped to a degree that would have frozen the lungs of an organic.

"So, you'll meet him?"

_Don't sound too eager, don't sound too eager…_

Scope brushed frost from one arm absently and sighed. "Very well."

As his friend turned to move back into the sanctuary of their allotment without another word, Scorpinok grinned. It was an expression he was careful to ensure that Scope did not see.

"Great."


	5. But I'm Gone

Whee! Guy Fawkes! Fireworks for all!

And…dear me, is this a timely update I see before me? Yes, because my pointless angst muse has seen fit to return at last…although why he's manifesting as James Barrie's Captain Hook I have no idea…

But I'm Gone

_One morning a few years ago (how many? Fifty? A hundred? He thought it might be closer to fifty, but he couldn't be sure), he'd returned to the apartment early. Rumor had been abounding for the past several weeks about a new legislation, one that entailed a further drop in energon rationings. It wasn't particularly surprising- rationings had been falling steadily lower almost since the end of the war- but the prescribed amount, he had noted, would leave the pair of them barely on the edge of coping. (In the months that followed, to no one's surprise, starvation would break out in almost every Sector. They themselves would survive only by ruthless conservation.)_

_He'd gone to discover whether or not the rumor could be verified, and had found that it had been. He didn't quite remember what he'd said to the official who had verified it, only that whatever it was would be thought, in certain parts of the universe, to be indicative of a poor vocabulary._

_Scorpinok had heard the news over the radio waves by the time he'd returned. The smaller Decepticon was sitting on the windowsill, staring pensively out at the sky with one leg dangling. As Scope had stared at him, he'd sighed, and murmured, "I guess it could be worse."_

_Scope had looked at him and, for only the second time ever, felt the rise of utter despair._

* * *

There were places that had never been repaired… 

The Pit was a long, thin strip of land. Places like it existed all over Cybertron, especially on some of the lower levels, but it was generally recognized as the largest.

The design of new and innovative bombs had become, during the war, not so much a hobby as a way of life. Every generation was handed the old skills, and every new generation found ways of improving on old design. Decepticon tradition had held that if you could not, at least, manufacture something that exploded roughly when and where you wanted it to, you were not a Decepticon. You were prey.

And bombs planted beneath the ground held far more terror for a species that couldn't fly than for one that could.

The end result was that much of Cybertron was a just-habitable time-bomb. Word had it that both the Maximal Elders and the Tripredicus Council were working to clear the planet's major cities of mines, especially now that commercial enterprise was tentatively creeping back onto Cybertron. But the Sectors had remained untouched, either by a lack of time or equipment or, more probably, inclination. Some of the more cynical had registered the opinion that both the council and the elders were waiting for all refugees and unemployed to accidentally detonate some vast network of mines and helpfully eradicate themselves.

And _then_ there was the Pit.

In its way, it was testament to the ingenuity of both species. It had counted as neutral ground for half a millennia, which meant that both sides had been in a race to see who could make it more uninhabitable. And it was amazing, the sort of things large groups of intelligent people could come up with, when provided with enough time.

The bombs that just exploded were the best. Some of the worse ones involved chemical fallouts that other planets could barely hope to dream of. There were subtler, niftier little numbers called 'dancers', which, when detecting an Autobot symbol within twenty feet, would arise spinning gently from the ground untilthey were hovering at head height. At which point the outer shell would retreat and the arresting array of spikes would appear, andthey would explode, sending a thousand needles out in every direction. If these merely took your head off, you could count yourself lucky. There were those who equipped their particular renditions with specially blended toxins, which the needles pumped instantly into the nearest fuel line, guaranteed to provide a slow, vocals-exhausted-from-screaming death.

Despite all this, the Pit was traversable. There were pathways running through it like cracks through glass that were relatively safe. Most of the chemicals had died away after the first two hundred years. Thee still lurked pockets of invisible death here and there, but Predacons learned to be good at avoiding those. Mines were still a problem but, if you had lived most of your life as a Decepticon, you learned to avoid them too. At the very least, you learned how to bounce.

As a meeting place, the Pit was lousy.

Scope looked into the blurred middle distance and had _serious reservations._

Not that he intended to back down now. Such a move would count, in his opinion, as very definite cowardice, especially seeing as Scorpinok was displaying no concerns as to their welfare. Scorpinok who, Scope was aware, knew far less about avoiding chemical mines than he did. Besides, this was a test. Scope was intelligent enough to recognize a challenge when it was issued, and he was, thus far, fascinated. It would be worth the risk, if only to see who would do such a thing.

The notion had crossed his mind that this may well all be a Maximal trick, a means by which the Elders could sniff out reprobates and eliminate them from the complicated business of running a planet. If that was the case, he was more than prepared to go down in a rain of laserfire, hopefully taking more than a few of them with him as he did. He had suspicions, however, that it wasn't a trick…at least, not one so obvious. Slow though he was, dim-witted though he seemed, Scorpinok was not stupid. His intuition was one of the few things that could be relied on.

"Do you see him?" asked Scorpinok, wriggling over a piece of debris that looked like a fallen pillar.

Scope muttered a negative, giving the area one last scan before transforming.

They moved like eels through the wreckage, Scope going first. Transformed, he was slower than usual, but equipped with an armored hull that rendered him far less likely to lose more than his fair share of body parts in the unlikely event that he did wander too close to a mine. Scorpinok, whose alt-mode was that of a small and, at times, embarrassingly delicate six-wheeled tracking device, remained in his better-protected robot form.

Not that a few ounces of extra armor would save you if you were foolish enough to wander from the path, Scope thought. If the initial blast didn't rip your pieces to pieces, the second and third would. There were areas in the Pit so densely packed in with mines that setting off one would trigger a chain reaction violent enough to register on the satellite of the Maximal High Council (situated on the other side of the planet.)

It was, to his undying humiliation, half an hour before Scope realized that they were being followed. He weighed up the situation, and allowed it to continue until both he and Scorpinok had reached an area relatively free of debris. After transforming, a brief argument was held as to whether doing battle or doing the sensible thing and hiding behind the nearest piece of shrapnel would be the better part of valor.

The decision was made for them when a cheery voice from behind Scope said, "Ah, there you are. Good morning."

Every cable in Scorpinok's body locked into place, before recognition cut in and he almost laughed with relief.

"It's him", he muttered.

Scope, who hadn't moved a single square inch, thought, _He followed us. For at least five miles, if I'm not mistaken. 'Good morning', indeed…_

He turned.

Megatron greeted them both with a nod and a smile.

* * *

Scorpinok had taken in only those details he considered useful. A tad more prudent and a yard more cynical, Scope took in the rest. 

Gun alt-modes were forbidden in the Sectors, but it was the only option he would have put money on. The sleek lines and elegant framework, especially when combined with that smile, put him in mind of nothing so much as a very well polished, very nicely stylized but mostly, very _sharp_ blade. Like Scorpinok, he had no doubt that the newcomer was of Predacon design. There were some things Maximals didn't do, and one of them was the openly sinister creature that stood before them. The detail that kept niggling at Scope's mind was whether he was also a Decepticon. At the time of the change, many new Predacons had been created from scrap, in an effort to study the effect that a smaller body had on an unformed mind. Decepticon and Autobot scientists had been alternately relieved and dismayed to discover that the matter of size had no effect on the ability to contain enough malevolent evil to stuff a medium-sized universe with.

Aesthetically, the mechanism was a masterpiece. So it was a pity that Scope had been considering killing him even before he'd begun speaking.

"So you'll have to forgive my lateness, I fear", Megatron was saying, "but it couldn't be helped. I had…urgent business to attend to over in Sector Seven. Scorpinok, is this your…friend?"

A twinge of annoyance flickering at the almost friendly informality, Scope's optics narrowed slightly as Scoropinok nodded.

"I told him you'd explain the plan, Me-Megatron", replied the scientist, stumbling over the casual usage of the most dreaded Decepticon ruler ever to exist. The purple Predacon-if that was what he was-had not asked for an honorific. Neither had he earned one, so Scorpinok, reluctantly, stuck with 'Megatron'.

"_Ex-_cellent. If I might know your name…?" he queried, addressing Scope this time, who growled and gave it.

_No back-up_, the warrior finally decided, having taken in every nearby nook and cranny out the corners of his optics. _He's alone out here. And he knew there would be two of us. And he must have known we'd be armed. And you can't tuck very large weapons into subspace and _he's not carrying any.

Scope, of course, had brought his saber and had persuaded the enraptured Scorpinok to bring his gun. Neither, he'd reasoned, would be much use against a platoon of Maximal soldiers, but going into the Pit to meet with an unknown renegade of questionable affiliation without weaponry was beyond dishonorable and into the land of the tragically stupid.

"I assume Scorpinok has filled you in on the skeletal structure of my plans?"

"He has", snarled Scope, folding both arms and scowling in an attempt to wipe that convivial attitude away.

"Splendid. Shall we, then, sit down and talk?"

"You choose an…odd location for discussion."

"My dear Scope, can you think of better? The Maximals don't dare come here, and I doubt any wondering tourists would bother with disturbing us."

The answer was obvious, of course, and Scope was interested to detect, for the first time, a slight break in the charming, blessed-be-the-oily tone of voice. Right about where he'd said 'Maximals'…

"And, for some reason, your compatriot didn't feel it would be wise for us to meet at your living quarters. He felt you might…object, for some reason."

Having serious reservations or not, Scope gave silent thanks for his roommate's occasional bursts of astuteness. Indeed, he would have objected vey strongly to having a potentially insane revolutionary knowing exactly where they lived.

"Very well. Let us…talk."

* * *

Two cycles later, they walked back the way they came. Albeit, at a slightly slower pace. 

"So, what did you think?" Scorpinok asked at last. He looked sideways at the other warrior, who was still in robot mode.

The noise that escaped Scope's vocals, in any other being, would have been taken for a low, threatening growl, but Scorpinok had learnt to recognize his friend's unique 'hmm's. Scorpinok waited.

"He certainly seemed very…confident", Scope finally admitted.

"Yeah…"

They made their way beyond a large, metallic edifice that lay directly across the path, Scorpinok by clamoring laboriously over the top, Scope by ducking under one sharp, rib-like protrusion twice as tall as he was. What little of the twisted, burnt out hull was still recognizable looked like nothing so much as the upper torso of a dead city-former. As he made his way down the other side, Scorpinok's foot caught on a piece of loose debris, sending it clanking and clattering down the remains of a shoulder-joint. Both winced in unison, as though expecting the mammoth warrior to rise from the scrap heap and smite them.

It wasn't until they reached the city's outer limits that they spoke again.

"Are we going to do it?" Scorpinok asked in a low, quiet voice.

Scope looked at the older warrior and thought, _You are, no matter what I say. That much has already been decided. _

"He said he'd give us a day to make up our minds", Scorpinok said nonchalantly, after a pause.

Scope scowled at him.

"I fail to see why he bothered. He's already got you in his thrall with very little effort whatsoever."

Scorpinok shrugged, well aware that rising to Scope's taunts rarely did any good.

"Maybe I'm not the one he's interested in", he pointed out softly.

The larger mech gave his companion a long, hard, scrutinizing look. Apparently reaching some inner decision, he curtly said that he would decide the next day. Scorpinok nodded, offering acceptance, as was his wont.

"I've got an idea", he announced as they entered the ash-world of the Sector, putting away all talk of Megatron and his plans.

"Why don't we go and get over-energized?"

Scope stared, this time in confusion. He hadn't heard the slighter mech make such a suggestion since the aftermath of his last suicide attempt. And that had been two hundred and fifty years ago.

"What?" he asked, for once wondering if he had heard correctly.

"Well", said Scorpinok in the reasonable, mathematician's voice that accompanied all his good moods, "if you agree, I'll want to drink myself circuitless to celebrate. And if you don't, I'm gonna need something to frag my sorrows in."

"…Very well. Let us drink and be merry."

_For tomorrow…_a dark voice added in his head.

Scorpinok must have noticed the belabored look, for he suddenly broke into a grin the likes of which Scope hadn't ever seen him produce. "Quit worrying. The night is young."

"I, however, am not."


End file.
